


Metanoia.

by agirlkillsgod



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Cross-Posted on Twitter, Episode Fix-It: s04e08 Silence in the Library, Gen, Jack is only mentioned, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Body Modification, One Shot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Vomiting, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28628865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlkillsgod/pseuds/agirlkillsgod
Summary: Metanoia./ˌmɛtəˈnɔɪə/nounchange in one's way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion."what he demanded of people was metanoia, repentance, a complete change of heart"or: River Song's Resurrection.
Relationships: Jack Harkness & River Song
Kudos: 3





	Metanoia.

Waiting when in an eternity of boredom is not the easiest thing River Song has had to do. Slumber seldom comes to her, and when it does it arrives with a bite. Shaggy brown hair and anguished eyes follow her in and her  Eucharist of ash and smoke always follows her out. Like clockwork, she awakens in a coughing fit, scar—laden  palms atingle with the presence of four — thousand and two. Next to the window she’ll sit until aurora paints the sky again.

At exactly nine o’clock she shakes Donna Noble’s twins and the irenic Charlotte Lux awake, preparing them breakfast twenty —five minutes later while gazing fleetingly at the vortex manipulator moulded to the joint of her aching wrist. It’s the only time she allows herself to look at it; The Doctor always preferred to send their messages at nine.  _ Soon _ , she whispers, and moves on with her day.

Repetition quickly becomes her least favourite literary device.

Another morning in marble and reminiscing of twenty—four years and liquid sunlight. Hot chocolate does nought to keep cold hands warm and apricity’s haphazard fingers never reach. The children deposit their plates in the sink and bound out into the snow; she does her best not to appear lachrymose at the familiarity. Scintilla of vulnerability glares at her from the still mirror of hot chocolate.

In Charlotte runs, only ten minutes later, with a bouquet of snowdrops. She deposits them in the empty vase upon the windowsill. “Merry Christmas,” she smiles, a little too all—knowing for River’s liking. “Check your wrist.” With a giggle she skips back outside, leaving River to gaze on curiously.

She listens to the child’s advice nonetheless and drops the mug in surprise. It shatters upon impact with the flaw, scalding liquid rebounding against the bare flesh of her leg —— but attention fixates on the cosmogyral particles swirling her wrist. She blinks, veins turning to honey when the golden tendrils don’t disappear.

She reaches for the particles and presses the button upon her vortex manipulator. Atoms dematerialise and the pain ablaze at nerves is the best thing she can remember feeling.

The Woman with an Eyepatch catches her and uses rough hands to weave her mind back into place. She is her doll; Eyepatch is her maker. Eyepatch sews ball—jointed limbs and bruised patella back together, threads lacklustre tresses and spider—leg lashes into her skull ruthlessly. Eyepatch works tirelessly into the night; when Eyepatch’s skin begins to peel, she slashes at the new porcelain and hollow cheeks of her creation. Marble eyes of a teddy bear, the stitched lips of a puppet and manicured nails that Eyepatch ruins in her rage finish her up. Eyepatch tidies her up with a white gown and simulated starlight just to watch her yearn for the warmth.

Around flashes of consciousness and pain, she recognises the creak of a table moving and bumps of rocks obscuring its perfect passage. She realises, as they’re stuffing her full of holy water and sedatives she wants to throw up, that she’s bound to the table and they’re wheeling her … somewhere.

Everything goes black again.

When she next opens her eyes, tintinnabulations ring loud in her ears. In this callow body of hers she rises, mud—caked and so beautifully  _ alive.  _ White gown soaked, sockless—feet trembling, frame wracked with shivers; she breaths in for the first time in god knows how long, the frigid air setting dirt—filled lungs alight in the best way possible.

Her vortex manipulator beeps, and she grins at the universe’s biggest hedonist’s message.

_ I’m waiting.  _ —  _ Jack Harkness. _

Next stop: the universe.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> also posted on @agirlkillsgod on twitter as an in character one-shot/solo.


End file.
